


All Sad Words of Tongue and Pen

by fatal_drum



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Choking, Gratuitous poetry references, Hallucinations, M/M, Murder Family, has more Will Graham than you'd think, more murder than you can shake a stick at, season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 08:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9482195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: In another world, Will Graham dies senselessly before he learns of Hannibal's betrayal. Hannibal is left to sort out what this means, and to guide Abigail Hobbs in her becoming.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There are several references to poems, paintings, and songs that I've compiled here) on my fic Tumblr. They're not necessary for understanding the story, but they're all beautiful things that I think fannibals would enjoy. 
> 
> This story is dedicated to all the beautiful people who have commented, sent kudos, and/or bookmarked my fics. I adore you all, and your feedback helps me develop as a writer. 
> 
> Massive thanks to my beta and pirate king, [inter_spem_et_metum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inter_spem_et_metum), who sent me edits _from the fucking Frankfurt airport_. Her writing is beautiful and will break your heart. I'm not sure what I did to deserve her support or her insightful comments.

****The end, when it comes, is not with a bang but with a whimper.

Hannibal is not present when it occurs, a fact he regrets constantly. It was a moment he had rehearsed over and over in the corridors of his mind, on the steps of the cathedral in Palermo; on the floor of his office in Baltimore; and in the still, dark fields behind a lit house in Wolf Trap, Virginia.

In some of those visions, Will Graham was serene and accepting of his fate. He met the blade of Hannibal's knife like a kiss and watched him with warm eyes as the life dripped from his body. His heartbeat slowed under Hannibal's slick fingers, peaceful.

In others, Will fought him tooth and nail. The blood sang in Hannibal's veins as he subdued his prey, pinned his warm body to the ground, and opened him slowly, like a gift. In one such fantasy, Will blinded him. He sank both thumbs into Hannibal's eye sockets and pushed, rupturing the globe and bathing his hands in vitreous fluid. Hannibal was forced to carry out his work by touch, taste, and smell. The sudden, searing pain combined with his absent sight heightened each of his senses. The sharp scent of Will's vicious satisfaction was so strong he could taste it, could perceive the moment it flowed into fear and finally resignation. His meat was soft and rich against his tongue as he licked his way into the shivering abdominal cavity, ignoring Will's pleading voice.

Other men had surprised him in their last moments. Lesser men. Will Graham deserved the chance to surprise him, to be eulogized in a monument of flesh and bone. Hannibal would make art of his body. Perhaps he would be Narcissus, draped half-nude over mossy stones to gaze into his own reflection. Or Saint Sebastian wrapped in silk, with his hands bound and his lean form pierced with arrows. He would be as a mandala built with sand, more beautiful for having been swept away.

But _this_.

This is ugly.

The truth of the matter is that Will Graham does not die under Hannibal's knife, hands, or teeth. There is no opportunity to taste his fleeting pulse, nor suck the last breath from his parted lips. Will Graham dies in the most pedestrian of ways: crushed beneath the wheels of a freight truck, the articulate lines of his body broken and smeared across the fragments of his battered car. They are forced to identify him through dental records.

What little meat persists has spoiled in the Virginia sun by the time he is found.

It is a closed casket funeral.

 

* * *

 

Will Graham's isolated existence becomes even more apparent when no one steps forward to dispose of the body. Though his funeral is well-attended, the mourners are mostly colleagues and acquaintances. No family can be found, no wistful former lover, no trusted confidant to lay him to rest. The thought brings Hannibal a furtive satisfaction that he tucks between his ribs.

Jack Crawford takes on the bulk of the arrangements, with the help of Alana Bloom. The dogs are split between various colleagues, whom Alana screens carefully. Abigail takes one of the smallest, a terrier called Buster.

Hannibal guides her in choosing the flowers.

“These are beautiful,” she murmurs over a cluster of primrose.

 _I cannot live without you_ , the blossoms whisper.

“They are.” he acknowledges. “But perhaps not the best, given the circumstances.”

She listens patiently as he explains the meaning of each flower they pass. Chrysanthemums for grief and truthfulness; tea roses for rememberance; hyacinths for sorrow. He describes the laurel wreaths and vigils of his childhood.

“There is an entire world in flowers.” he tells her, clasping a hand gently on her thin shoulder “My aunt spent many hours arranging and rearranging blossoms. _Ikebana_ was a form of meditation to her. An art that combined centuries of tradition with a stroke of creativity.”

Abigail bites her lip to hold back the tears.

“This doesn't make any difference for Will, does it?”

 _Little white flowers will never awaken you_ , a smoky voice once sang. He recalls the lilting melody of the clarinet, the words layered in English and Hungarian at once.

He reaches up to tilt her chin towards him. “Funerals are for the living, Abigail. To celebrate the life we have shared in, and to show our love for those who have passed.”

“Everyone I loved is dead.” she chokes out. “Maybe it would be better if I just _—_ stopped.”

She folds into his chest like a wounded bird, shaking quietly, and he strokes the hair away from her flushed, wet face.

“Your love was a rare gift for Will,” he murmurs. “Would you take that from him?”

Her tears leave wet tracks that soak through his dress shirt to chill his skin.

 

* * *

 

The service is perfectly offensive. Alana Bloom wilts like a flower against his side, and he strokes her hair automatically, the strands soft and fine beneath his fingers, like a doll's. Long ago she had shared the story of her awkward flirtation with Will Graham. Perhaps in some other world she had not stopped him. They lived today in the Wolf Trap house, surrounded by dogs and unruly dark-haired children.

His hand tightens on her shoulder, and she squeezes his fingers.

It requires ruthless restraint not to laugh when the pastor attempts to paint his friend as a man of faith. In Will's world, there was no God, only the endless cruelty of man; no afterlife, only the empty stretch of eternity.

Hannibal likes to imagine a God in heaven. In whom else's image could he have been made?

Perhaps this is a punishment for hubris. There is more cruelty in this moment than in the collapse of stone and brick on little dried-up grandmothers during mass. He had never imagined a mind as complex in its suffering as Will Graham's. Now all he has left are his imaginings, like so much dust in his mouth.

 

* * *

 

At night he dreams.

In the most harrowing vision, they are in Venice. Cool air drifts through the open window, bathing Will in starlight. His skin is bare against the Egyptian cotton sheets. He raises his chin for the lazy kiss he knows Hannibal will grant him, the smooth caress of lips and tongues and just the smallest hint of teeth. Rough stubble scratches Hannibal's jaw, his neck, his chest as Will slides down.

“You smell amazing,” Will sighs, tongue darting out to flick against his nipple. Hannibal's hands tighten in his hair.

“My cologne has no ship on the bottle.”

“It's not just the cologne. You even _taste_ good.” His teeth close gently on the pink flesh, making Hannibal groan.

“Are you planning to eat me now, Will?” he asks, more breathless than he intended.

Will's words are light, but his gaze is penetrating. It is a mercy that he does not often meet Hannibal's eyes; the feeling is akin to being flayed, willingly.

“You would like that, wouldn't you, Doctor Lecter?” His lips curl in a cruel and teasing smile as his words pierce Hannibal. It is in this instant that he understands Will _knows,_ a thought that floods his body with heat.

He struggles to keep his voice level. “What makes you think that?”

Will's hands come to frame Hannibal's face, thumbs stroking his cheeks. He feels pinned, exposed, like a cadaver with its fleshy secrets on display. He does not move.

A warm finger strokes Hannibal's lips, and he opens his mouth to taste the salt on his tongue.

“You love life, Doctor Lecter. You love fine things, warmth and color and rarities. Others see you as cold, but they don't realize you feel things so much more acutely than they do. They live in a shallow half-world. They will never see colors as richly as you do. The notes of an orchestra will never feel like a caress against their souls. They will never read the lines of a Botticelli painting as a prayer.”

Will's eyes pin him, and he cannot breathe under the weight of their stare.

“When you kill, you bring beauty to the world where once there was only ugliness and banality. And you know exactly how ugly the world can be, don't you?”

Will leans down close to whisper, so close his lips brush the shell of his ear. “What was her name, Hannibal?”

The acknowledgement breaks him, and he tells the whole, repulsive story. The words do not come easily to him; he has never spoken them aloud, barely considered them as a man. They come from a childish place inside him, a field he thought had long since been razed and sown with salt. Words that make sense in his mother tongue give him pause in English – he has to stop to consider how to describe the gold of her hair, the flutelike timbre of her voice.

All the while, Will's hands graze possessively over the planes of his body. He does not miss a single freckle or scar in his explorations, touching his lips to each as Hannibal recites the details. Nothing is hidden from his eyes, hands, or mouth.

He is describing the bitter taste of her flesh when Will parts his legs and breaches him with two fingers. It has been many years since he allowed anyone this act. Typically Hannibal had pinned his partners flat and taken what he had wanted from them, leaving them helpless to do anything but clutch his hips with pleading hands. They had imagined, laughably, that they could possess him this way.

His body clutches greedily at Will, who kisses him with a smiling mouth. He can hear boats on the canals below, the sounds of life in the city around them. Will's mouth tastes of scotch.

“I would have liked to meet her,” Will murmurs against his neck.

“She would have adored you.”

Will brushes a lock of hair from Hannibal's face. “I can't regret it, though. If you hadn't lost her, you would be someone else, someone different.”

Hannibal's reply is lost when Will lines up their hips and drives into him. His lips part in an airless gasp as the man's body shudders against him. Hannibal grips him tightly.

“You must have been so alone,” Will says as he makes Hannibal clutch him so hard his nails leave red welts on his pale skin. He enjoys the fierce contrast, the gasp Will makes when he scrapes over a nipple. Their bodies rock together. “You don't have to feel that way again.”

“I never knew the alternative.” Hannibal replies with unexpected honesty.

Will grows wilder in his thrusts, his teeth sinking into Hannibal's collar bone as his movements shake the entire bed. The pain only highlights the sweetness of Will's body against his, the desperation pulling them both taut.

He thinks he might break if Will does not stop. He thinks he might enjoy breaking.

“I see the truth of you,” Will pants, gritting his teeth against the pleasure. “In all its beautiful brutality. Your arrogance, your vulnerability _—_ ”

Hannibal groans as the tightness builds in the pit of his stomach. Any moment _—_

The next words hit him like a lungful of ice water.

“I don't find you that interesting.”

His orgasm crashes over him like a wave, leaving him shocked and pliant when Will finally ejaculates inside him.

Shortly thereafter, Will leaves him alone in the starlit room with the sweat cooling on his skin.

 

* * *

 

There is no art in what he does to the truck driver. He provides the world a service in plucking this parasite from its hide.

His name is Harold Ellison, and the police find high doses of alcohol and methamphetamine in his blood, and a bottle of prescription painkillers in the floorboard with someone else's name on the bottle. This is not his first time being charged with possession, nor of driving while inebriated, but it is his last.

Harold Ellison cries like an infant when Hannibal dismantles him.

Normally he prefers the cool sterility of a scalpel, but this calls for a more personal touch. He begins by breaking each of Ellison's fingers. Twice. When his screams grow too tiresome, he balls up the man's sweaty undershirt and jams it so far down his throat he gags.

His nails tear gouges into Ellison's unwashed skin. Usually killing brings him a savage joy, but there is no joy in this, no pleasure. He rips Ellison open with his bare hands and spends hours rending and shredding everything he can reach. At some point the man stops trying to scream, but Hannibal does not notice.

Hours later, Hannibal's hands and jaw ache, and the blood is drying thickly under his nails and around his mouth. Some imagination would be required to perceive that the ruined thing beneath him was once nominally human. He pants and begins to consider what to do with his kill.

_...every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter... it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself._

Looking down on the broken shell of flesh, he realizes he can never display this work. Like Basil Hallward, he has left too much of himself in his painting.

Disgusted, he hides the body so thoroughly even he could not retrieve it.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes the world _burns_ Hannibal. Sounds are harsh, dissonant, and impossibly loud. Even the softest fabrics chafe his skin like sandpaper. The petty conversations around him make his head throb, and he nearly gags at the scents of strangers' hair and sweat and the odors from their chemically processed meals.

 _The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs_ , he recalls. A line from a poem he had found quite hideous at the time.

It is times like these that he wonders what really is the point of all this. What really is the point of continuing to breathe and eat and maintain the ruse that is Doctor Hannibal Lecter; to straighten the folds of his so-called person suit and continue to live as a man.

He never arrives at a conclusion.

 

* * *

 

The grass is soft and cool beneath the thick blanket. A libation of wine soaks into the ground like blood. Perhaps it should have been beer, but traditions do not persist without reason. He lays a bouquet of spidery white egret flowers at the base of the stone. _My thoughts will follow you into your dreams_ , the blossoms promise.

The stone is pure white marble. If anyone had questioned the cost, they had left their thoughts wisely unspoken.

Will had described his father's grave once in the warmth of his office. Hannibal remembers it vividly, as he does all their sessions.

“It was pathetic.” Will muttered, picking at a worn spot in the knee of his jeans. The fabric was fraying.

“How so?”

Will licked his lips. “He was a lonely old drunk. No family. No friends outside the bar.”

“He had you, did he not?”

He sighed, and the frayed spot began to tear. “Whatever that's worth. I was an eighteen-year-old kid. Scraped together what my savings with what his drinking buddies had laying around, and barely managed to afford a placard. He got buried with all the other white trash, packed into the ground like sardines in a can.”

“They say it is the thought that counts, do they not? If it was done with love, it is a fine thing.”

“I don't know that I would call it love.” He raked a hand through his curls and pulled slightly as if to bring himself back to the present. “That's wrong, isn't it? You're not supposed to _say_ things like that _ _—__ ”

“The goal of therapy is not to force your feelings into the proper boxes, Will. It is to learn to live with yourself as you are.”

“What if who you are isn't a good thing?”

Will's gaze flicked upwards, briefly meeting Hannibal's before fixing somewhere over his shoulder.

“I think you are one of the very best things. You have simply never had the opportunity to see it.”

“You don't have to blow smoke up my ass.” Will muttered.

Hannibal regarded his folded hands. Anyone else would have been fishing for compliments, but Will was so accustomed to self-doubt to imagine them coming. He was quick to correct a compliment lest he be caught enjoying undeserved esteem.

Hannibal suspected he knew the reason for this quirk, and it was buried beneath a cheap placard in Louisiana.

Will's grave is a peaceful place, shaded by an oak tree. It recalls to him the stories of Perkūnas from his childhood, the god of thunder and heavenly fire. The oak was sacred to Zeus as well; the oracle in Dodona heard his voice in the rustling of its leaves.

He wonders what he might hear in the wind here, six feet above an urn of grey ash.

His eyes trace the letters and dates of his friend's life. The bas-relief above is simple: a stag pausing to drink from a wood-lined stream. His delicate limbs suggest the possibility of flight, the wariness of prey contrasted with the deadly points of his antlers. No one is aware that Hannibal's sketch provided the basis for the design. There had been few people to ask such questions.

“I killed a man yesterday.” he says to the surrounding silence. It is the first time he has spoken such words aloud. “The first of a sounder, as you would call it.”

“He stank of cheap bourbon, cigarettes, and regret. He was no one of consequence, but I think you would admire the work I made of him. You always praised my art, even in the face of critics.”

Indeed, nestled in the minds of killers, Will had scarcely noticed the disquieted faces of his colleagues. He held the murderers' motivations quite tenderly and could not bear to hear them misrepresented. Where Jack Crawford saw only violence, Will Graham read elegant truths written in blood and bone, heard the harmony in each brutal note.

“He fancied himself a predator, but only when his prey were weaker than he. Such a man imagines himself to be untouchable.”

 _You would know about that, wouldn't you?_ Will asks, his voice as soft and insolent in memory as in life.

“My strength lies not in being untouchable but in being beyond caring. There is nothing that can truly be taken from me. I am a collector of experiences. I cannot be caged when my memory palace stretches into the horizon. Death, pain – those are only more experiences to be catalogued.”

He takes a quiet sip of wine, a lush red that fills the corners of his mouth. The bottle had cost more than Will's battered car. He imagines the outrage on Will's face to see it soaking into the ground six feet overhead, the resentment of luxury he fought to keep beneath the surface. Even with his education and the gifts of his fine mind, he had held himself apart from his upper middle class colleagues. Hannibal had enjoyed watching him suppress discomfort during their meals together, savored the unfamiliar way he wielded cutlery and forced himself to blot his lips with linen napkins his instincts screamed were too fine to be soiled.

“As I was saying, before you so rudely interrupted. A man like that feels most powerful after the slaughter. He does not hunt as I do, nor does he seduce with cleverly baited traps – he prefers to snatch lambs from the field, too young and tame to pose a threat. His designs are artless, crude, and undeserving of your consideration.”

“He who seeks to dally with lambs must be a sheep. And a sheep is meant to be shorn.”

Sadists always had the lowest threshold for pain. He had pleaded like a coward when Hannibal began plucking the hairs from his head and face. Some came easily; others brought clumps of skin. In the end, he was hairless as an infant, swaddled in undyed wool. Hannibal was particularly proud of the cloven hooves: he had taken each of the man's digits and cut between the long metacarpal bones of his hands, the metatarsals of his feet. The man had died attempting to scream, sucking clumps of wool into his lungs instead of air.

“His heart and liver were beyond salvaging, but he was decently muscled. I shall serve him stewed in _ghee_ , garnished with cockscomb flowers – _rogan josh_. My guests will find it charmingly rustic. You, I'm afraid, would find it quite pretentious.”

Will rolls his eyes, hiding a smile behind his glass of wine.

 

* * *

 

Hannibal will never forget the first seizure they shared. Will had been complaining about the ineptitude of local law enforcement on his case when he trailed off quite suddenly. His eyes had rolled back like an antique doll's as a fine tremor took his body.

Gently, Hannibal took hold of his face with both hands and examined the moment of his eyes. A thin thread of saliva leaked from the corner of his pink mouth. It was a minor seizure, no cause for grave concern.

Awake, Will would never tolerate the level of scrutiny Hannibal indulged. He rarely had the opportunity to examine the fine lines around his eyes, to feel the scratch of stubble beneath his fingers. The veins in his eyelids were the most delicate lavender, his eyelashes a soft sweeping curl. His hands were calloused from too many evenings spent tinkering with broken things. The cuticles peeled at the edges of his nails. Hannibal breathed deeply, enjoying the melange of odors: the sweet scent of inflammation layered over sweat, motor oil, and an earthy musk his cheap aftershave could not disguise.

He imagined dressing Will like the doll he appeared to be: massaging his hands with fragrant oil and buffing away the dead skin until his fingers were smooth as porcelain; shaving the three-day stubble from his chin and neck; draping his form in silks and rich velvets. If he did such a thing, he could never allow Will to leave his home. He could not tolerate the idea of others viewing him in the luxury he deserved; better for the sight to be reserved for Hannibal alone.

It was around this time that Hannibal realized the gravity of his situation.

 

* * *

 

His second victim is the leader of a minor Christian prosperity ministry. John Chambers has a grandfatherly charm that has helped net him millions of dollars in donations from the hopeful. His home dwarfs Hannibal's in size. Three luxury cars are parked in the garage.

“Fucking disgusting,” Will had muttered over a newspaper article featuring his latest acquisition: a three hundred foot yacht, ostensibly to be used for missionary work.

As Hannibal watches, a fourth car pulls away with a sloe-eyed young woman bundled in the back seat. Her short white dress is adorned with ribbons to emphasize her youth. More missionary work, undoubtedly.

The man dies surrounded by the thing he loves best, hundreds of bills folded and tucked into paper wings that stretch six feet in either direction. Fine needles pierce the lines of his eyelids, the ridge of his brow, his lips.

_And again I say unto you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God._

He takes the tongue that had charmed so many worshippers.

 _Isn't this a little trite, Hannibal?_ Will asks, one eyebrow raised over the screaming man. _Even for you?_

“I should like to see you do better.” Hannibal replies. His victim's eyes spin wildly to the empty space Hannibal addresses.

 _Not my job._ Will answers, arms crossed over his chest.

Hannibal is considering his words as his victim begins to choke on his own blood.

 

* * *

 

“You should take me with you.” Abigail says as he whisks a marinade for his newest acquisition.

“To the butcher shop?”

She gives him a look that she no doubt thinks is intimidating, lifting the neatly wrapped packet of meat only to let it fall with a thud. “That didn't come from a butcher shop.”

“I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I'm not a little girl, you know. I can handle it. I can _help_ you.” Her voice trembles slightly on the penultimate word.

Hannibal looks at her carefully. Her eyes gleam with unshed tears as she chews her lip.

“I've lived nearly half a century without help foraging. Why do you think I need it now?”

“You're a hunter, not a gatherer, Hannibal. And sometimes the things you hunt can fight back. Even deer can gore you if you get too close.”

He brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Better me than you.”

Her arms tighten around him as she buries her face in his chest. He runs his hands lightly down her back as she tries and fails to stifle the small broken sounds.

“You can't leave me,” she orders against his neck. “You can't ever leave me. I'll kill you.”

“That is just as well, since I have no plans to leave.”

 _Liar,_ Will whispers in his ear.

When Abigail recovers, he dries her tears with a dish cloth, blotting carefully at the swollen red skin under her eyes. It puts him in mind of a smaller girl, a fairer one, always coming to him with cuts and scratches from playing in the garden. As then, he finishes the motion with a kiss on her cheek.

“There. Now if you're ready, I would like to show you something. Have you ever heard of _žagarėliai_? Sometimes they are called angel wings.”

She shakes her head mutely.

“Then you are in for a treat. We will need eggs and butter...”

Abigail is quiet as he shows her how to mix the dough, to roll it flat and cut it into strips with a pastry wheel. By the end, she is smiling.

 

* * *

 

 _You can't keep this up forever,_ Will says, reclining on the pillow next to him. His chest is bare in the dim lamplight.

“No one can keep anything up forever.” Hannibal shuts his eyes, but that leaves him with the room in Venice, the smell of the canals and the hushed sounds of people living their lives in the streets below.

“No, but you don't have to go this fast. You're getting reckless, Hannibal. It's like you don't even care anymore.”

“I'm not sure I cared to begin with.”

Will rolls on top of Hannibal, arms around his neck as he nuzzles the line of his jaw.

“You found something worth living for, didn't you? Some reason you deserved to live more than your victims.”

“I don't kill the deserving.”

“Unless it's convenient.”

“Unless it's convenient.” he agrees. Of course Will knows better than to take him at face value.

Will's lips brush over his, first lightly, but then with more intent. The kiss turns him into kindling, dry rushes waiting to spark as Will's tongue explores his mouth.

Hannibal doesn't notice the hand on his throat until it begins to squeeze.

His lips open, but Will steals the air from his mouth, chasing it with his tongue and teeth. His chest burns for air as he tips his head back, curious to see how far Will takes it.

Will releases the slightest bit of pressure. He sucks sweet air into his lungs, but he is only allowed half a breath before Will's fingers grip harder, nails digging into the edge of his throat. He wants it to last forever.

“I infected you, didn't I?” Will says. Dark spots swim in Hannibal's vision, but Will's eyes burn through them. “Contaminated you with this desire to bring someone with you behind the veil.”

Hannibal's hands curl into claws, tearing at the sheets as Will seals his lips over his airless mouth. The feeling is akin to both drowning and being set aflame.

It is unspeakably tender.

He wakes covered in sweat, erect and breathless.

 

* * *

 

Abigail is folded in a chair, legs tucked under her small body as she cradles a leatherbound book in her lap. Shakespeare's sonnets, he notes approvingly.

“You will want your coat.” he tells her.

“Are we going somewhere?”

“We still need our third course.”

She regards him for a long moment, as if waiting for him to rescind his offer. Her fingers grip the book too tightly.

“Right.” she says, and sets it down carefully.

He helps her into the soft wool coat, then straightens it about her shoulders. The charcoal color accentuates her eyes, contrasting the bloom of scarlet silk around her neck.

They drive in silence, his own quite comfortable, hers thrumming with nervous tension. She chews the ends of her nails, stops at his raised eyebrow, and forgets again five minutes later. It reminds him of nothing so much as a girl waiting for a first date.

Sometimes he permits himself to imagine a life with Mischa. A life in which she grows to love poetry, to break hearts. A life in which she has first dates and dances and perhaps a wedding, but never ventures far from his side.

Abigail is everything and nothing like her.

The house stands empty and dark as they park a discreet distance away. He has chosen his time carefully; their prey will arrive within minutes, thinking herself alone.

“ _There was this _—_ nurse.” _ Abigail had said once, her mouth twisting bitterly. The expression clashed with her sweet face.

She stopped as if unsure she should continue. He urged her gently.

“ _She liked to taunt me. If I didn't take my pills, she would tell me all about how they would tie me down and force them down my throat or into my veins. How they would leave me there for hours, all alone, forgotten. How it would be better that way. “_

Abigail swallowed. _“She would ask me about my dad. If daddy's little girl liked–”_ Her cheeks flushed hotly. _“_ Doing _things, with him. I've never even... it wasn't_ like _that.”_

“ _I know.”_ he had told her. _“He would not have felt such a need to consume you, otherwise.”_

“ _No one's ever believed me before.”_ she said quietly.

He cupped her cheek, watching her tilt her head into the contact.

“ _He understood that you were to be treasured. Kept safe.”_

“ _Then why did he try to cut my throat?”_

“ _He knew he would not be around to protect you any longer. In his mind, you would safest cradled in the sanctuary of the ground.”_

She shut her eyes, not denying the truth.

He draws himself from memory to watch Abigail's face as she spies her gift through a slit in the curtains. Her eyes widen, welling with tears.

“Hannibal, you _—_ ”

He presses a bone-handled knife into her small hand.

“Make me proud.”

“What should I do?”

“Whatever comes naturally.”

She takes a deep breath and flexes her fingers over the handle, eyes fixed on the keen edge of the blade. When she moves, she is silent, a skill honed from years spent stalking the woods of Minnesota. The only sound is the slight creak of the plastic over her clothing.

The nurse is a petite woman with honey-colored hair swept artlessly into a ponytail. Her scrubs are creased and reek of antiseptic. Her full lips are painted a delicate pink. He knows the type: a shell of beauty blinds others to the poison beneath. She delights in taunting plainer girls with filthy insinuations, and she will continue to do so until her looks fade enough for others to recognize the abuse.

She shrieks when Abigail shoves her into the wall, gripping her ponytail with one hand and lifting the other to rest beside the woman's face, showing the gleam of the knife.

“What are you _—_?” She cuts off with a grunt when Abigail slams her beautiful face into the wall.

“Shut up.” Abigail orders.

“You're a murderer. Just like everybody said you were _—_ ”

Abigail brings her knife to rest on the woman's lips. She tries to pull back, but the hand fisted in her hair stops her.

“I'm not a murderer. Yet.”

The woman's shoulders tremble.

“What do you want?” she asks carefully. Her lips brush unwillingly against the blade.

“I want you to apologize.”

“I-I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Abigail.” Her shoulders shake with suppressed sobs. “Please forgive me.”

Abigail's hand unfists from her hair, and the nurse shoves back, stepping hard on Abigail's insole. Abigail cries out as she falls, gripping the woman's ankle. She falls with a heavy sound.

Abigail scrambles to straddle her. The woman drives an elbow into her solar plexus. Abigail slaps her in the face, taking advantage of the woman's shock to pin her to the floor. She pants as she grips the struggling wrists.

“Go suck daddy's cock, you little whore!” the woman shrieks.

The color drains from Abigail's face.

Wordlessly, Hannibal hands her a rope. She binds the woman's wrists with the skill of a practiced outdoorsman, cinching the knots tight.

She makes the first cut at the woman's hairline, carefully pulling the skin taut with her fingers. Blood pours down the woman's face as she screams; the scalp is richly supplied with vessels, and her blood pressure is soaring. Abigail pauses from time to time to wipe the woman's eyes so she can watch her peel the skin from its mooring of connective tissue. The cuts are not perfect _—_ this is not the right knife for the task, but Abigail is well practiced, and the scalp comes mostly in one piece.

The woman is sobbing brokenly by the time Abigail tosses the mass of hair and blood to land on the floor with a squelch.

“You fucking bitch,” she hiccups. “You, you _—_ ”

But Abigail is not done. She takes the woman's lips next, this time with rougher cuts as her victim struggles and screams herself hoarse.

The woman loses consciousness before Abigail takes her eyes. They are a beautiful dark green, with flecks of amber.

When she is done, Abigail replaces everything she has taken. The scalp sits like a wig atop her head. The eyes do not fit quite as well in their sockets as they once did. Her lips are no longer shell pink but a deep venous red.

“You have emphasized the artificial nature of beauty.” Hannibal says, clasping a hand to Abigail's shoulder. The girl jolts as if she had forgotten him. “Her most prized features are simply a mask to be taken off at will. A thin veneer for something ugly and crude.”

Abigail nods, swallowing.

“Are you _—_ are you proud of me?” she asks, her voice small.

Hannibal hauls her up by the hand and pulls her into his arms, where she shivers.

“I have never been prouder of anyone in my life.”

 

* * *

 

The banquet is a success. Abigail shines in her role as hostess, dressed in peacock blue silk with a cream scarf around her throat. His guests are charmed by her soft voice and the plate of _žagarėliai_ she presents, dusted with powdered sugar and accompanied by a reduction of caramelized figs in bourbon.

Their eyes meet across the table as their guests exclaim over the minced flesh of her kill, mixed with spices and served raw over thick slices of German bread. The feast stretches over three continents. Their guests praise him for his broad palate and the sense of elegance he brings to even the humblest dish, for his generosity in teaching Abigail.

 _Is this what you really want?_ Will asks, perched on the end of the table and taking a bloody bite of _mett_. Hannibal watches his throat as he swallows. _A crowd of sycophants, ignorant of your crimes?_

It is all he can do to restrain himself from slitting each of their throats, blood spattering the white linen tablecloth and pooling on the carpet below.

 

* * *

 

He realizes his mistake when he sees Abigail staring stricken at the television news. The nurse's sister is onscreen, sobbing about her discovery of the body.

When her rage drained away, it left room for remorse and other ugly things. Her teeth sink into her lip as they cut to a news anchor's crisp description of the facts.

There is a substantial reward for information about the woman's killer.

“Is something wrong, Abigail?”

Abigail jerks, turning to face him. Their eyes meet for a long moment.

“No,” she says, hands clenching into fists by her side. “Nothing.”

 

* * *

 

They continue as before, with harpsichord lessons and long afternoons in the kitchen. If her replies become softer and less frequent, he does not comment.

The time he enjoys most is when they read together. Each evening, she lights a fire as he deliberates over his choice. He reads her Chaucer, Dante, and Milton, and she reclines with her eyes closed, letting the words sink into her skin. He describes angels in heaven, sinners trapped in the bowels of hell, and the world of living men between them.

It is during one of these readings that he understands.

When the chapter comes to a close, he rises to fetch her coat, holding it open in invitation.

The ride to Wolf Trap, Virginia, is a long one. Abigail fiddles with the radio dials, alternating between garbled country stations and sermons, the echo of static and commercials. For once he does not comment, letting the noise wash over him.

Snow blankets the ground, crunching delicately beneath their shoes. His feet grow damp as he walks to the darkened porch.

It is the work of moments to pick the cheap lock. Abigail follows him inside, furtively, as if someone were there to see them. Her shoes make no sound in the dark corridor.

A basket of apples sits on the kitchen table, permeating the room with their sweet, rotting scent.

“What did you tell them?” he asks quietly.

She bites her lip, tears welling in her eyes. “That I – that I acted alone. They don't know anything about you. I won't tell them.”

The silence hangs heavily between them.

“You of all people know the cloud of suspicion that hangs over a murderer's loved ones. They came for you after your father's death. What makes you believe it will be any different for me?”

“I'll tell them you didn't do anything! That is was all me.” She grips his arm so tightly that he feels her nails through his sleeve. “Please forgive me, Hannibal. I'll make sure no one knows.”

He raises a hand to brush a lock of hair from her face, stroking down her cheek. She holds his arm with both of hers, rubbing her cheek against his palm.

“Can you forgive me?” she whispers.

He brings her to rest against his chest, face buried in his shoulder. Her body is soft and warm in his arms.

“Yes.” he promises, bending to kiss her pale face. He takes a moment to memorize her features: her freckled skin, her doelike eyes, and the soft pink curve of her mouth, like one of his sister's dolls.

She gasps when the knife pierces her, arms gripping him tightly. He jerks the knife upward into her abdomen. The blood rushes over his fingers, hot and thick.

“I forgive you, Abigail. Perhaps you can forgive me as well.”

They sink together to the floor, with her cradled in his lap. He finds himself murmuring soothing words, stroking her hair with a wet, red hand.

Will Graham's stricken face is spattered with blood. His lips move soundlessly as he reaches for Abigail and then stops, clenching his hands at his sides.

Abigail never struggles or begs, though it takes her a long time to die. It takes her longer still to grow cold. He closes her eyes with a brush of his palm, letting her rest on the floor. He is surprised to find his face quite wet.

He no longer sees Will Graham.

There is kerosene in the shed, matches under the kitchen sink. He soaks the furniture and the wooden floors, the curtains and bedclothes. The sharp scent burns his nostrils. He plans his escape: the papers he will need, the flights he will take. He will find a place with no snow, no forests, no wind-chapped girls.

He watches the flames and smoke from the fields behind the house, like a boat floating in a sea of dark glass.

 

* * *

 

_For of all sad words of tongue or pen,_

_The saddest are these: “It might have been!”_

_—_ John Greenleaf Whittier, “Maud Muller”

 


End file.
